Chapter Notes:

Supermegafoxyawesomehot Readers,

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! I apologize profusely for my lateness of updating (granted, compared to my other WIPs, I've been much more prompt with this one). I am afraid that I have been in a very tremendous battle with a horrendous Writer's Block Monster. I think I got him beat, though. However, I decided to divide chapter 9 up into two parts, namely just so I could update tonight. I apologize in advanced if this part has more typos than my other chapters, because I did not edit if as closely, for the same reason. It's getting late, I was running out of time, and I'm tired anyway, so I probably would do a shitty job at editing right now. I promise you that I do indeed have a grasp of the English language, and I have an illustrated copy of "Elements of Style", so I'm not completely dumb. I'm just lazy. :) If there's something big, though, please let me know. Until then, please review, because whenever you review, you give Sue Sylvester a bigger heart.

ENJOY:

Chapter 9; Part 1

"Cheers!" Burt exclaimed, raising his wine glass in the air. Everyone else at the table followed in suit, and the sound of clanking glass filled the table. The Hummel-Hudson family was at Breadstix, celebrating Carole's promotion to head nurse at the hospital she worked at. It was a family celebration, but Burt had insisted that Kurt bring Blaine along, and Kurt had obliged, despite the fact that an awkward tension currently existed between the two boys. They had yet to really discuss what had happened in Kurt's room over a week before – every time they talked, Blaine wanted to bring it up, and Kurt continuously shot it down, answering Blaine's questions with short, "It's fine, I'm not doing it anymore, stop worrying," types of answers, that Blaine was wary of. Eventually, it got to the point to where Kurt just turned his phone off for a few days, claiming there was something wrong with the battery and it wouldn't keep a charge. He also avoided Blaine on Skype and Facebook chat as much as possible, responding to Blaine's inquiring messages and e-mails with, "Oh, we must have just missed each other. Sorry. Maybe I'll be on tonight."

Kurt hated avoiding Blaine, but he hated the prospect of talking about his problems even more. Discussing the cutting would inevitably lead to discussing the bullying, and that would almost certainly lead to Blaine flipping shit and telling Burt, and Kurt couldn't handle that – he truly could not. Besides, keeping his phone off, although making things a bit lonely, did mean that it was easier to keep his promise to Blaine. No phone meant no nasty voicemails, which meant no reason to hurt himself. So far, he had only broken that promise three times – the night all the stuff had went down, and then two other times when he had gotten some particularly nasty hate mail, because, unfortunately, his bullies still had more than one form of harassment.

All of that said, he couldn't very easily tell his father that he didn't want his boyfriend to come with them without causing suspicion. The fact that Burt had been the one with the idea in the first place showed that Kurt's father was getting used to the idea of Blaine sticking around for a while, and being a part of the family – how could Kurt say no to that?

And so Blaine had joined them.

It wasn't all bad, really. Since they were with all of Kurt's family, the touchy subject couldn't come up, and this way, Kurt was able to make-up for being so distant for so many days. Blaine had been ecstatic at the invite, so much so that it was clear that Kurt's avoidance had been getting to him, and really? It was getting to Kurt too. He missed Blaine, but it was a necessary precaution against secrets getting spilled.

"And just think," Burt was saying a bit loudly from excitement. 'With the extra money we can finally go on that honeymoon!" Carole and Burt smiled stupidly at one another, unaware of Kurt shifting uncomfortably in his seat. It had been his fault that they had had to miss out on their honeymoon in the first place. His stupid school problems that he couldn't handle on his own. Not this time, though. This time, Kurt would handle everything – he was handling everything – and his family would remain unburdened. He took his father's words as reaffirmation of his actions, and tugged down at his shirt a little, unconsciously.

The dinner went on for a while uneventfully. Burt was drinking a little too much wine, ("Come on, it's a celebration! Besides, I've been damn good with my health. What's a little splurge here and there?" he'd asked between sips of his third glass.) Finn was talking on and on about the yoga class Rachel had dragged him to, ("I mean, seriously, who bends that way? It isn't natural. The only time I've seen someone twisted up like that was after they were smashed down by a hefty linebacker…"), and Blaine was sitting in his chair, politely quiet, rubbing his hand absent-mindedly against Kurt's thigh underneath the table, just enjoying the closeness they'd lacked that week. Kurt didn't pull way, also glad to be close, having missed being able to appreciate Blaine's touch without being afraid.

It was just as their main courses were arriving did Kurt notice him across the room. He was seated almost completely parallel to Kurt, and when the other people between them moved away, they were facing each other nearly dead on. It took Kurt a moment to place where he knew his face from – but only a moment, because soon, the memory came flooding back. The alleyway, so many weeks ago, where he had been shoved into gravel and scared beyond reason – his hands ached at the thought – and this guy? This guy had been the third person in the group – the one he hadn't recognized. The one who helped hold him back as Azimio touched him.

Kurt's entire body tensed up upon recognition of this guy, and Blaine noticed it, moving his hand away from his boyfriend's thigh.

"Hey, you okay?" he asked softly so the other's (who were too busy getting their plates anyway) couldn't hear.

"Huh?" Kurt asked distractedly, looking away from the guy. "What? Oh. Yeah, yeah I'm fine." He feigned a smile, which Blaine accepted after a slight furrowing of his distinctive brows. His attention turned to his own plate of food, and Kurt's returned to the guy, who, this time, looked up and caught his gaze.

It was like slow motion, and Kurt could have sworn that he couldn't hear anything but the solid, steady beat of his heart, as from across the room, the guys' face showed dawning realization, and a disgusting grin adorned his lips.

Kurt was the first to turn away, trying to focus on eating, but his stomach was not having it. After two smaller than average bites, his belly cramped up, and he resorted to pushing the food around with his fork instead. Every so often he would glance back up at the guy, who was often times looking back, sometimes just staring and smirking, and sometimes mouthing an unmistakable, "Fag." Of course he would be here the same time Kurt was, because that's exactly how his luck had been lately.

'He's with his family,' Kurt thought to himself, noting the older man and woman, and a pre-teen girl that sat at the guy's table. 'He won't do anything to me when he's with his family.'

But as logical as it may have seemed, Kurt was forced to remember that anxiety isn't usually responsive to reason. His head was suddenly filled with brutal images of what this guy may do to him if given the chance. He tried his hardest not to convey any of his fear on his face, as to not make his family suspicious. On the outside he kept an expression of mild interest to whatever topic Carole was rattling on about (he really hoped his occasional nod of the head wasn't out of place, because he really had no idea what she was talking about), while internally, his anxiety was building, and he knew that if he didn't do something fast, he was going to get propelled into full-on attack mode, right there, at family dinner, with no way of stopping.

He cursed himself for not bringing a razor with him. Surely, with panic-anxiety problems as severe as his, having a means of security would just be common sense, but he hadn't thought about it, and now he was stuck. He began to scratch his forearm, a little unconsciously, and a little on purpose as a means to calm himself down a bit as he looked around the table, as subtly as he could, for anything that may help him.

His eyes landed on the standard, black-handled steak knife that had come rolled up in his cloth napkin. He regarded it with wide, unblinking eyes, wondering just how he could pull it off.

"Kurt!" Burt's voice broke him out of his trance.

"Huh?" he asked, snapping his gaze up.

"You okay? You've barely touched your food. There somethin' wrong with it?"

Everyone at the table was looking at him, and he felt himself grow hot at the pressure. The adrenaline was making sitting still a near-impossibility, and even though that guy was on the total opposite side of the room, just eating dinner with his family (he had looked just as surprised as Kurt that they were both there, so clearly there was no purposeful ulterior motive), Kurt could think of nothing but that guy's hate, and the more he tried to focus on control, the more out of it he felt.

"No, nothing's wrong with it," Kurt said as steadily as he could, and he tried to give a smile he sure looked less than convincing. His mind flew back to that knife on the table, and to how a few minutes with that would solve everything for right now. "I'm just not that hungry. Too many breadsticks, I guess."

"You only ate like, one, Kurt," Blaine pointed out quietly with a worried expression.

"Carbs are filling," Kurt said with a shrug. "Don't worry, I'll take it home. I'll eat it tomorrow."

"You sure, Son? Maybe you should eat a few bites. You look a little flushed, and now that I'm lookin' at you, you're lookin' pretty thin."

Kurt's new eating habits (or lack thereof) had caused him to lose an unhealthy amount of weight, but so far he had managed to hide it pretty well, and he wasn't about to draw more attention to it. Instead, he whined, "Daaad, I'm fine!"

Burt gave him a look, but said, "Whatever, eat or don't eat. I just don't get how you can sit with a full plate of hot, delicious food on your plate and just push it away to save for later. Maybe I should take notes from you." He chuckled and thankfully turned back to Carole before he could notice that Kurt wasn't laughing with him. His insides were still doing cartwheels, and his thoughts were still on the sharp blade of that knife, but he became acutely aware that Blaine's stare was fixated on him intently.

"What?" Kurt snapped, frustrated, ruder than he meant to, turning his head to look over at his boyfriend. Blaine flinched a little at Kurt's harsh tone, but all he did was shrug. Really, he was just looking Kurt over. He was a lot thinner, and why hadn't he noticed this before? When was the last time he saw Kurt eat something? It bothered him that he couldn't think of when. He opened his mouth stupidly, like he wanted to say something, but all that came out was a muttered,

"Nothing." And he turned away.

Kurt felt guilty for all of ten seconds before remembering the matter at hand. He had already worn a small welt in his arm from his fingernails, which he would have to make a lie for later, because it surely was going to scar, and truthfully, it hadn't done much to stop his nerves from getting worse. All it really did was delay the inevitable – full-blown panic attack that he would have a hard time lying his way through. That was, unless he could do something about it.

He had to act quickly. The mere contemplation of what he was about to do was just making things worse. As inconspicuously as he could, he grabbed his bag (no, he argued time and time again, it was not a purse), and sat it on his lap, unzipping the middle pocket without looking down at it. He gave a quick once over at everyone. Finn had caught Blaine's attention in some sort of football babble that Kurt wouldn't have cared about even under normal circumstances, and a slightly tipsy Burt was laughing loudly to an anecdote Carole was telling. No one noticed, then, as Kurt snatched the knife off the table and slipped it into his bag in one quick motion.

"I'll be right back," he announced, jumping to his feet, slinging the bag over his shoulder, thankful to be able to move around. Everyone looked up at him as he said, a little too quickly, "I need to use the little boy's room, plus, the humidity in this building is just doing crazy things to my hair. A quick touch-up is definitely needed. I won't be long. Can you believe how gross the air is in here? Maybe instead of investing in this horrendous décor, they should put some money towards a proper air conditioning system." He laughed nervously. as he pushed in his chair. "Anyway, be right back."

He knew rambled, but he turned on his heel and headed toward the bathroom before any of them had a chance to question him.

I n the bathroom there was just one other person, and he was washing his hands. Kurt gave a little nod, which the man reciprocated, and then, by-passing the urinals, Kurt barricaded himself in one of the stalls. He stood there awkwardly for a minute until he heard the rustling of paper towels, and the swing-shut sound of the door closing. Immediately thereafter, Kurt fumbled with the zipper of his bag. He all but ripped it open and reached in and grabbed the knife carefully by the black, plastic handle.

No time was wasted. Blood already on the verge of exploding, Kurt could barely control himself. He unbuttoned his shirt and made a few sloppy cuts on his skin. He cringed at the feel, having gotten used to the smooth slice of his single-blade razors. The knife wasn't dull, but it was clunky and awkward, and hard to maneuver. He ended up cutting himself deeper than he meant to. He realized this as blood gushed in a pretty substantial stream, which looked a little heavy for single-ply toilet paper to mop up.

"Shit," Kurt muttered to himself, sitting the knifed down on the dispenser. He grabbed a big wad of toilet paper and shoved it up against the wound, trying to stopper it before it go to his beltline where the blood stain may be noticeable. He kicked himself for his lack of self-control. This would be risking infection. He almost never cut without being able to clean it up right after – how would he be able to explain infection, he had reasoned, if it ever got bad enough? He felt unsafe without a bandage and a bottle of Neosporin. This cut would not only be dirty, but it was also very likely to stain one of his best shirts. This was dumb, but, like usual, he didn't realize the stupidity of his own action until he had already done it. Didn't he used to have common sense?

He couldn't worry about that right then, though. Although messy and shoddily done, the cuts had done what they were meant to. Kurt was breathing easier now, and a few more blood-soaked wads of toilet paper later, the bleeding had turned into a small, clotting trickle, and he decided to finish up and head back to the table before he had been gone for too much time – they could only buy the hair story for so long.

He threw the wads into the toilet and flushed them away. Buttoning his shirt up against his still tender cuts hurt and chaffed, but he ignored it. He looked at the blood-laced knife and decided it was only common courtesy that he wash it off before giving it back, if only so his family wouldn't ask him how his steak knife got coated with blood.

He undid the lock to the bathroom stall, walked out, and found himself face to face with the guy that had caused this anxiety-freak out in the first place. He hadn't even heard the door open.

"Hey there, Kurt," he said with a malicious looking grin, as the other boy stopped dead in his tracks and stared in horror. The guy looked him over, moving his eyes up and down. The grin got wider. "Having fun in there?" He laughed as he reached over and took the crimson bladed knife from Kurt's hands, and held it lightly, easily, in his own.